


the seat of sweet music's throne

by fantasinia



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, M/M, Mistaken Identity, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasinia/pseuds/fantasinia
Summary: The Phantom is determined to raise the boy who has enthralled him into the star of his opera house. Kagehira Mika is not that boy, but he can try his best at pretending to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this whole thing was inspired by a tweet i saw about shu as erik and mika as christine, but the more i thought about it the more i realized it wouldn't fit as a 1:1 copy of the story so i changed stuff and added stuff and changed more stuff and here we are now
> 
> really it's become more of a "inspired by phantom of the opera" story than a "phantom of the opera au" story, but i tagged it as the latter anyway for ease of tagging
> 
> talk to me on twitter @fantasinia i'm always ready to yell about shumika

The lights are beginning to dim, and from his position at the back of the small choir, Mika can faintly see the silhouettes of the opera attendees settling into their seats. If he strains his ears, he can faintly hear them chattering, too — the choir and orchestra have both faded into silence by now, leaving only the hushed whispers of the audience.

The lights dim further, dropping the hall into near-total darkness. The single bulb that illuminates the orchestra pit, where both orchestra and choir stand, remains lit, providing just enough light for Mika to read his score if he squints a little. The orchestra raises their instruments, the conductor lifts his arms — and as one, they begin to play, the opening notes of their overture signalling the start of this evening’s performance.

Mika sees the stage lights come on, focusing their brilliance on the curtains that are beginning to part. Behind them, right in the spotlight, is Nazuna — _sweet, beautiful Nazuna-nii_ — in his debut lead role. Even as he, along with the rest of the choir, raises his voice in accompaniment, Mika imagines he can hear the audience beginning to murmur in appreciation, taking note of this newest talent.

Nazuna smiles, lighting up the stage, and the orchestra follows along with a crescendo. Tonight’s opera has begun.

 

* * *

 

By the time the last of the guests have left the opera house, Mika is tired from running back and forth between the various errands the troupe keeps sending him on. Finally, with a curt dismissal from the conductor, he’s allowed to head back to the small dressing room that functions as his room here. With his feet beginning to hurt and the layer of sweat Mika is sure he must be drenched in, he can’t wait to enter the shower.

Pulling the key from his pocket, Mika lets himself in — and then pauses, as he sees the bouquet of golden roses lying on the dressing table. Frowning, he opens the door again, looking up and down the corridor in case this is some kind of strange prank, but no one is there. Just in case, he checks the lock — no, it works fine, and he certainly recalls unlocking it earlier when he came in. So how did those roses get in there?

Examining the bouquet provides no clues — it's unmarked, with no card or note attached. Its wrapping, too, is plain, a pale blue sheet of wrapping paper that Mika absentmindedly notices is almost the same color as the costume that Nazuna wore earlier. Otherwise, it's unremarkable, and with a shrug Mika puts the bouquet down and goes to take his shower.

The hot water beating down on his bare skin does wonders to relax his body and soothe his slightly strained muscles. It's a struggle to not remain in there all night, but with a reluctant groan, Mika finally manages to persuade himself to shut off the faucet and exit the shower. Pulling on a set of fresh, if slightly ragged, clothes, he begins towelling off his hair as he crosses the tiny room towards his bed.

“Do you like it?”

The voice comes out of nowhere as Mika is passing in front of the mirror, and he jumps, not quite managing to hide the small “nnah!?” he makes in surprise.

“The flowers, I mean,” the voice continues. Frowning, Mika stares hard at the mirror, but it stubbornly continues to remain an ordinary mirror.

“Eh… they're real pretty! Thank ya if yer the one who sent 'em~” His staring match with the mirror failing to produce any results, Mika decides to reply to the voice instead.

“Hmph. Your accent is atrocious; it's a wonder it doesn't show on stage.” A small pause, then just as Mika opens his mouth to defend himself, “Still, you have potential. I can refine that, if you'd cooperate. Your voice is weak yet, but with sufficient tuning I could turn it into the star of this opera house.”

“Um… huh?” Utterly confused, Mika finds himself unable to completely process what the mysterious voice is saying. It’s all coming at him too fast; he doesn’t have enough time to think about what all this could mean. Instead, he decides to settle for the obvious question first. “Wait, how’d ya get into my room? It was ya, right?”

A condescending sniff answers him. “There is no room in this opera house which lies out of my reach. This is my domain, after all.”

“Oh. I see?” He doesn't, not at all, but the voice clearly expects him to. He doubts pushing for a further answer will yield anything but more insults, so he changes tracks. “So… uh… y’wanted to do somethin’ with me? Somethin’ about refinin’, and, uh…”

“I meant vocal lessons.” There's a definite trace of irritation creeping into the voice now. “While your looks leave precious little to be desired, the directors here clearly have no idea of how your voice should be utilized. I plan to fix that.”

“Sure, I guess.” Mika has no idea why this voice has suddenly taken an interest in him, and still doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, but he's not about to turn down someone wanting to teach him to sing. It's all he has keeping this roof over his head, after all.

“Excellent.” The satisfaction in that word is unmistakeable, as the voice continues, “Stand in front of the mirror, then. I’ll need to hear your range first, to know what I’m working with.”

“R-right now?” Mika gulps, looking from the mirror to the bed he was planning to tumble into, and back again. On one hand, he’s tired, the bed looks invitingly soft (it isn’t, it’s as hard as ever but he’s sleepy), and the whole situation is moving much too fast for him. On the other, this benevolent but also seemingly prickly voice wants to teach him to sing, and if he dares to say no for tonight, that might be the end of it. Sighing, he complies, turning to face the mirror. “Okay. Whaddya want me to do?”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Mika’s voice is starting to wear out from singing scales over and over again, while the voice seems like it’s finally starting to wear out its supply of _tsk_ s and _hmph_ s. Still, as harsh a taskmaster as it’s turned out to be, it sounds pleased enough, and Mika fervently hopes that means the lessons are going to continue.

(He doesn’t quite dare to hope yet, but if they do continue, and the voice really does find a way to make Mika a star like it promised earlier, then maybe he’ll be able to graduate from this gruelling life of running odd jobs for the opera house in between practicing and performing every new script that the directors give him. It’s not such a bad life, compared to his old one, but if there was even the slightest chance of him not having to worry about keeping himself fed and warm and clothed, for once...)

“That’s enough,” the voice finally says abruptly, interrupting Mika midway through his rendition of the G major arpeggio. “Get some rest, you sound like you’re going to fall asleep on your feet. There’s no point continuing if you’re going to be too tired to remember or use any of my lessons on stage.”

“Mmkay…” Mika can’t quite stop a yawn from tacking itself on to his answer. Stumbling over to his bed, he lets himself flop onto it with another yawn, rolling onto his side to continue his conversation with the voice behind the mirror. “Nnah, I forgot ta ask, but what should I call ya? Just callin’ ya mister voice all the time s’kinda weird…”

“I… some people call me the Phantom.”

“So yer mister Phantom, gotcha…” The haze of sleep is beginning to claim its hold on Mika, his eyelids constantly trying to droop shut as he fights against it with yet another yawn. “Goodnight, mister Phantom~”

“Good night. I expect you to be here again tomorrow, at the same time.” The voice sounds much softer now, not just in volume but also in tone. “And… I’m glad you liked the flowers. I picked them out specifically to match your hair.”

Even as that last sentence registers, Mika is already giving in to the sweet lure of sleep. Something about the words nag at him, faintly, but he pushes the thought aside and instead focuses on the first sentence. _I did well,_ he thinks. _Mister Phantom wants to continue teaching me again tomorrow._ The warm feeling that spreads through his body as he drifts off to sleep can’t be his blanket; he’s lying on top of it.

 

* * *

 

Behind the mirror, Shu takes a moment to bask in the feeling of accomplishment spreading through him. Finally, _finally,_ after all this time, he’s found the perfect material to work with. He’s known it since the moment he first laid eyes on Nito earlier, when the curtains rose and Nito’s lovely features were illuminated for all to see.

Nito is not what he’d expected at all. On stage, he’d seemed so delicate and demure, like a porcelain doll who deserved nothing better than to be locked away in a glass case, away from prying hands who would do nothing but dirty and ruin him. After talking to him, teaching him for those precious many hours, Shu has realized that Nito is more akin to an antique covered in mud and trodden on. He can hear it clearly — under the way Nito willingly (if somewhat begrudgingly, as the night wore on) complied to all of his demands without a single complaint runs a deeper undercurrent of fear, as if refusing would bring punishment, or worse. He makes a mental note to ask about that tomorrow — he can’t have something like that hanging over his lessons, after all.

Still, Nito is Nito, and no matter what kind of person he is, Shu is sure that he’ll be able to mold him into the image he holds in his minds eye. His acting and movements need no work, the way he carries himself on stage impeccably perfect. His voice is still rough, a lot more scratchy and discordant than it sounded during the performance earlier, but Shu can tell that with time and his tutelage it will bloom beautifully.

And he has plenty of time. He’s checked the performance schedules for the near future; Nito isn’t scheduled to play the lead again for a long time. He’ll be able to take his time working on Nito’s voice, honing it into the perfect instrument he envisions, before putting Nito back into the spotlight.

 _Aah, but I have so much to do._ Inspiration is striking, again, after a long drought when nothing but insipid imitations of his former works would come to him. Tonight, finally, it’s coming in a relentless torrent, images of unsewn costumes and snatches of uncomposed song all locked in a whirlwind of artistic visions in the center of his mind.

Unable to contain his smile, he turns, heading for his sewing room. He can already see the next masterpiece he’ll create — a dress, dark in black and red with burnished gold highlights, to bring out the color of Nito’s hair and eyes. He’ll have to write a new libretto, too, something that will suit Nito’s lovely form. And compose a whole new score to set it to, something tuned to Nito’s voice. Of course, it won’t be done for a long while, but he should be able to find something else worthy of Nito for him to perform in, in the meantime.

 _Perhaps I should consult Wataru about it? ...No, Nito is mine alone to work on. I’ll have to handle everything about him personally, lest someone else spoil him through their interference._ He’ll leave a letter for the directors, then. It’s been awhile since he’s last exerted his influence as the Phantom, and this seems like a good time to remind them of his existence.

All for Nito, of course. _Dear, sweet Nito…_


End file.
